Wednesday, January 22, 2014

A DISTANT REALITY

A number of friends observed that my last post ‘A Distant Dream’
was nostalgic and reminded them of their own childhood and the dreams that they
had grown up with or the books that they had read. So I decided that I shall
once again undertake an exploration through the lanes of nostalgia. There are
two distinct emotions that come into play here – to relive those moments which
have left an indelible imprint on my psyche and a travel down in search of my
roots.

I have never seen my grandfather for all practical purposes. He
passed away when I was only six months old. But I have heard a lot about him
from my mother, elder brother and sister and others. What I did learn and
realize was that he was an extraordinary and spiritually elevated person. It
was in this context that I talked about my native village Gopalasamudram. Ever
since I have nurtured a wish to write about him, but I also realised it can
never be authentic for I have only heard and never really knew him. So I got
down to writing what you may at best describe as fictional biography. I have a
long way to go for I have just started but thought that I should share at least
a bit of what I have begun. I do not know whether I will be able to go forward
and complete it, but the journey is giving me immense joy. I find it extremely
hard to reconstruct the socio-cultural milieu that was prevalent then. One of
the reasons is that this can best be captured only by writing in one’s own
native language.

How can I recapture the raw smell of the soil, the whiff of paddy from the fields, the fragrance of jasmine from among the tresses of women (so
typical of Tamil Nadu) or watch the lazy and languid march of the cattle on
their way back to their sheds as the sun sets with the cowherd walking along
with his arms over the stick on his shoulders, the aging Brahmin standing on
the banks of the river completing his evening prayers or listen to the bells
ringing and the haunting drum beats emanating from the Shiva temple! It is very
difficult. They reside there frozen back in time and in the corners of your
mind. How do I bring them out through words?

‘SANKARA

Sankara
slowly got up from his bed, the time was four thirty in the morning. He made
his way to the puja room, opened the door and then prostrated himself before
the pictures and idols of the various Gods that were enshrined there. He then
washed his face and mouth went to the quadrangular, a common feature of the
houses in the village, picked up his towel and a dhoti which were hung up on
the clothes line to dry the previous day and moved towards the entrance.
Meenakshi was also awake and was moving about in the kitchen, preparing for the
coming day. Sankara called out to her and she went to close the door as soon as
he left. This was a normal day and this was how it began. All these years the
routine had never been broken.

It
was still dark as Sankara made his way to the river to have his bath and be
there to receive the first rays of dawn and say his morning prayers as an
obeisance to the Sun God. As he passed the Siva temple, he bowed his head in
reverence and continued. The silence that engulfed him was briefly interrupted
by the rustle of the leaves as a gentle wind blew across the trees. For a man
of lesser stature, the ghostly shadows and the silence would have been
intimidating, but Sankara found his communion with God in that stillness.

He
walked across the narrow bridge over the vaykaal(canal) and climbed the mound
which separated it from the main river. He descended and went towards the
mandapam (a pillared outdoor hall) on its banks. The Thambiraparani flowed silently, and
as the dawn slowly broke one could see the silver waters waiting for its first
bathers. Sankara was alone when he stepped in. As he bathed he dipped his head
thrice into the river and stood up facing the east as the sun slowly rose and
the first rays danced across the waters. His hands folded he said a small
prayer. He dried himself in the mandapam and sat down to do the sandhya
vandanam. He loved this peace that surrounded him and as he did his pranayam he
could feel himself breathing in the atmosphere of sanctity that prevailed, the
gentle caressing sound of the Thambiraparani as it wound its way across the
rocks on its bed. He picked up his clothes that he had spread out for drying in
the mandapam and started his way back home. On the way he waved a greeting to a
few of his friends who were proceeding towards the river. Sankara was a man of
few words and his friends knew that and did not stop to talk to him but waved
their hands to acknowledge.

Meenakshi
had bathed by the time her husband came back from the river and set about
arranging for his puja. She knew that he would not touch or have anything to
eat or drink till he had completed his morning worship. Having been married for more than fifty years
now, she was used to his routine.

Gopalasamudram was a quaint little village though a panchayat in
the district of Tirunelveli, in those days unspoilt by the intrusions of city
life. The agraharam where Sankara lived was one long street, where everyone
knew everyone else. The street was bound by the Siva temple at the eastern end
and a Vishnu temple at the western end. The entry in to the agraharam was right
in the centre literally splitting it in to the west side and the east side.
Behind the agraharam on the northern side flowed the Thambirabarani river. One
had to cross a small bridge over a canal which was called as the vaykaal of the
main river before climbing over a mound to reach the river bank. The river was ever
flowing and the water was crystal clear, one could see the bed of the river and
the fishes. The river derived its name from the fact that it was said to
contain copper. Though there have been various interpretations for its name,
there was a sanctity attributed to it as it was believed to be as old as the
puranas and epics. In fact it was said that it is mentioned in the Mahabharata
as an asylum where the Gods had undergone penances for attaining salvation. It
wound its way from its origin in the Pothigai hills in the Western Ghats and
flowed to merge with the ocean in the Gulf of Mannar.’

I could not avoid repeating the last paragraph from the last post
for the sake of keeping the continuity.

But I have expressed my desire to some friends that the richness
of the native literature should be spread beyond the boundaries of its origin.
Though the lyrical quality cannot be captured it will help in understanding the
richness of thought and culture. Authentic translations should be available and
I am sure there are enough scholars to do that now. It will be a great
contribution in creating awareness among the non native population and as a
legacy to posterity. The great writers and thinkers of the twentieth century
though they wrote in their native language, their works were available to a
large audience and spread beyond the boundaries of the country of origin
because of the translations.

Sunday, January 19, 2014

‘If wishes were horses then beggars would be
kings’, I do not need a horse, neither am I a beggar, nor do I want to be a
king. My wish is very simple but I know it can never be fulfilled. The simpler
the wish the tougher it becomes.

I have always wanted to live in a small cottage beside
a stream with the hills in the background and the lush green paddy fields in
front and as the gentle breeze blew across, causing ripples on the sheet of
water I would watch the paddy dance, a slow waltz. I would read ‘The Solitary
Reaper’ and listen to the song of the lonely reaper waft across the fields. I
would wake up to the morning sun just peeping out from the hills and the
chirping of the birds on the trees in my backyard and then the milkman would
arrive with the milk, fresh and undiluted straight from the udder. Then in the
garden with a steaming cup of coffee on my rocking chair breathing in the
freshness of the morning and then off on my morning walk to the village nearby
being greeted by friendly faces. The unpaved street cleaned and sprinkled with
cow dung mixed water with kolams in front of each house as if reminding one
that the street was the canvas on which every house let their creativity flow.
The only mode of transport, the bus would make its visit twice a day to keep
you in touch with the outside world. The newspaper at least two days late ensured
that you were always behind what was happening out there, not that one was
really bothered about being out of sync.

You may wonder whether I am in a time warp. Does
such a world exist? I woke up to the reality that this was a dream, a distant
dream and would remain as such. But I remember that such a world did exist in
my childhood not as a dream but as a reality. It is not that I was born and
bred up there but every time I went to my native village during the school
vacations I always returned with these images and may be these are recurring as
dreams now. The first initial of my name is the name of my village and the
second my father’s name. I never dropped using the first name as it tied me to
my roots and an identity that I still treasure.

Gopalasamudram was a quaint little village those days though now
it is no longer so. It was a panchayat in the district of Tirunelveli, in those
days unspoilt by the intrusions of city life. There was one long street, where
everyone knew everyone else. The street was bound by the Siva temple at the
eastern end and a Vishnu temple at the western end. The entry in to street was
right in the centre literally splitting it in to the west side and the east
side. On the northern side flowed the Thambirabarani river. One had to cross a
small bridge over a canal which was called as the vaykaal of the main river
before climbing over a mound to reach the river bank. The river was ever
flowing and the water was crystal clear, one could see the bed of the river and
the fishes. The river derived its name from the fact that it was said to
contain copper. Though there have been various interpretations for its name,
there was a sanctity attributed to it as it was believed to be as old as the
puranas and epics. One had to travel by a bullock cart to reach the village
from the nearest bus stop which was two miles away. I always enjoyed the
holidays, playing with the others my age and older, below the trees. My
grandfather spent his life there and I am sure my father would have wanted to
go back and settle there. If you ask me whether I want do it, the answer is
that it is not possible. I can dream but I also realise that I cannot now do
without all the comforts, if that is what we can call it. We have been caught
up in vortex of wants and wanting more and more. When I did get an opportunity
to visit my native place I found that two distinct changes had taken place.
One, the village was no longer a village but a small town by itself and the
other a dilapidated village inhabited by old and mentally unstable elders
because the succeeding generations had moved away to seek a new life to the
cities and across the seas in keeping with the changing times. The remaining
still held on to their past realities which had now become a dream.

I am not at all comparing the past with the present. I can only
say that life was simple and the wants were fewer and it suited that
generation. With the progressive evolution of the human kind, the succeeding
generation’s wants have increased and life has become more complex. That is why
we would like ‘If wishes were horses beggars would be kings’ to come true. Of
course we are not satisfied with only horses and we want to be kings. Nothing
wrong with that, for we have expanded the boundaries of our knowledge and may
be we are in a better state of understanding of the working of this world. We
have built our lives on Liberty Equality and Fraternity, but the quest for
power and dominance still rules.

But I still dream for that is all I can do now. I know it will
remain as a dream. I speak for my self only for I still ache for the simplicity
and innocence that appears to have been lost somewhere down the line.

Wednesday, January 8, 2014

A few days ago I received a mail from a friend which
read “A two letter word in English has more meanings than any other two letter
word and that is ‘up’. It is listed in the dictionary as an adverb,
preposition, adjective, verb or a noun”. I enjoyed reading the paragraph with
all the usages of ‘up’ incorporated in it. It set me searching for words that had
great significance and impact on our lives. In the process I narrowed my search
down to three words – a single letter word, another two letter word and a three
letter word – ‘I’, ‘If’ and ‘God’. While we have always talked about the first
and the third which represent the ego and the all encompassing, we have to
recognize the role played by ‘If’ in the conduct of our lives.

For a long time I held the view
point that the root cause of misery in our life is the word ‘If’. A majority of
us spend our time thinking about the choices we have made in life and how
things could have been different ‘if’ we had chosen otherwise. There are
certain choices we have made because they were within our power to do so. These
are mostly centered round marriage, love life, studies, career etc. Things
could have been different and may be I would have led a better life than my
present state. I am not happy, I feel miserable. I am helpless when I start
questioning my origins and why I was not born under more favorable circumstances.
I question God and blame him for all the misery that I am undergoing now. Of
course there are no answers, when someone comes along and says it is due to my
Karma and I am atoning for my sins in a previous birth. All the same I am
miserable. Most of the time, we end up blaming extraneous reasons for our
mistakes and retreat into a shell of self pity. In all this, ‘if’ is a post
mortem of our past and dissatisfaction with the present reality.

Since then I have realized that I
had been unfair to the word ‘If’. This is a word that is a philosophy by itself.
I thought that ‘if’ I am in a position to accept the present state of existence
than I have been successful in erasing out all negative effects of my past
actions. So here ‘if’ lays down a condition to help us towards acceptance so
that we move on.

I remembered a poem ‘IF’ by
Rudyard Kipling which I had read during my school days. Though I did remember a
few lines I had to do some search for the whole poem. I am reproducing only the
first stanza and the last four lines here –

If you can
keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt
you,

But make allowancefor their
doubting too;

If you can
wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated,
don’t give way to hating

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

-- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - -

If you can
fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

Yours is the
Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be aMan,
my son!

This perhaps is one of the most inspirational and
motivational poems to have been written. It was written by Kipling to his son.
May be a hundred years have passed since then but the message is eternal. Here ‘if’
lays down the path to a greater understanding and perhaps a way towards
achieving the goals we have set for ourselves. Like Kipling says in the last
two lines – “Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, And- which is
more- you’ll be a Man my son”. As per Khushwant Singh,
Kipling'sIfis "the essence of the message ofThe Gitain
English.

When I read Kipling’s poem again
after so many years I was also reminded of John Lennon’s song ‘Imagine’.

- - - - - - - - - - --

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world

You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one

Here one realises that this also
talks about all the conditions to make the world a better place to live. ‘If’
all this can happen we can have heaven on earth.

When I had remarked that -‘if’ is the root
cause of all the misery in this world, my friend replied “The word ‘if’ is an embodiment of pure atheism.
Creating certainty is in our hand. Anxiety about future, punctuated by the word
"if" is pure atheism, according to Mahatma Gandhi”. I had to take his
word, for I have not read Mahatma Gandhi.

While I understand anxiety, I cannot accept that
creating certainty is in our hands. Also that ‘if’ is pure atheism. I am sure
some of my readers will have their viewpoints on this, which they can share on
this space.

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

As
the year 2013 ends, I wish all the readers of my blog A VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR and
wish that 2014 fulfils all the hopes we have nurtured and our goals achieved.
For me personally this will be the start of a new year of blogging and I hope
that I shall be able to explore, share and sustain your interest in what I
write. It is not a selfish motive, for it is you out there, who have given me
the encouragement and an opportunity to understand myself better. Your comments
and active participation in the discussions on my posts have helped me evolve
as a better writer. I am ever grateful for this, for I have discovered a joy in
being able to write. When you blog you choose to share what you write in a
space you feel is your own but something that you would like everyone to see.
In that sense it is on the public domain and I have learnt a few lessons on the
way. We may choose to write on anything we want, but ultimately it should
connect with the reader. I learnt a lesson during the early stages of my
blogging life. The first was from my daughter, who said that I write well but
she is unable to comprehend what I write. The other was from a respected senior
colleague who said nearly the same thing, but added that my writings were
philosophical excursions that many may not connect with. I realised that I had
indeed been languishing within myself and recording them there.

We have our own
take on various issues that we like to write about. One has to remember that
this is a personal opinion put up on the blog and comments from the readers
will always be there. These should be looked at as the different opinions that
exist. There is no question of a correct opinion, as these are always
subjective, but we do learn a lot and realise that there are contrarian ways of
looking at things. One thing I have consciously avoided is being judgemental or
making sweeping statements. This is also a forum where the reader is heard.

A
‘blog’ is a combination of ‘Web’ and ‘Log’. In short it is a log of thoughts
and writing posted publicly on the World Wide Web. It
is not a diary or a book, for a diary is used to record your personal thoughts
and a book is a long term project laid out and developed over a period time.

For me personally it has been a space to immediately transfer my
thoughts on. The faster I do it, the more truthful I am to what my thoughts
are. Of course it undergoes its share of editing to ensure that the grammar and
spellings are in order and a relook at it to ensure that sensibilities of my
readers are not hurt. For instance my post ‘A Walk in the Rain’ was written
soon after I had really experienced the exhilaration on my evening walk along
the beach. My post on ‘A conversation with my beard’ came naturally as I sat in
front of my computer in the night wanting to write something and as I stroked
my beard as is my usual habit. I found that these posts connected more easily
with my readers as they could relate it with there own experiences whether it be the sheer joy of living or
looking at events happening around them. I have consciously avoided posts on
political and financial topics for I am not really interested in them after
having spent a major part of my life in their midst. I guess that there is a
different forum for all this and ultimately I am not a journalist.

I have also found that it is important to have a proper heading for
each post on your blog, for apart from the readers in your friends circle and
other related ones, there is a huge audience out there who make searches
through the net on topics they are interested in. I found that my posts on art,
book reviews or on literary and philosophical personalities still continue to
have page views long after I had posted them. I am saying this, because I
acknowledge that I have found it important to have more and more people read
what I write, for this is what motivates me to continue exploring and refining
my way of looking at things. I also admit that I like it when people like what
I write.

So let me thank you for making me richer as a human being who is
able to understand and empathise with people out there. That is the truth and
it is not vanity when I say that.